Sunday, June 04, 2006

This weekend brought the indelible Carol Maxwell to our lovely little shitberg. And she was, of course, very late. Early Friday turned into an 11 o'clock phone call late Friday night. It seems our Carol was delayed as only she can be by ex-sex in Tacoma, Thai food on 4th Ave and gay strudel with Neil the Pharmacist.

I was not pleased.

Day 2 Carol arrived to wake me at 11am with coffee and the promise of breakfast. We Ended up down at New Moon by noon, walked in Burfoot Park after that, then headed back to town where Carol tried to ditch out on me to hang out with Kim Langston.

Again, I was not pleased.

Now, I'm not one to monopolize Carol's time. She's insane and over-commits and I know this. So, I have historically been the friend who doesn't make demands and as a result, doesn't get to see much of her when she decides to blow into town for five minutes. But not this time. This time she came under the pretense of celebrating both my recent birthday and upcoming graduation. As far as I'm concerned, this time I take precident: Fuck those Oly bitches; I've known you since Mrs. Mitchell's 4th grade class. Lita Ford's Kiss Me Deadly was our favorite song, we both "went out" with Andy Johnson and thought acid wash denim was the shit. You cannot fuck with that.

Needless to say, ditching this birthday-girl/graduate was not an option. We got iced mochas, Carol called Kim (who, in true Olympia fashion had a "wheat headache") and we made our way out to the far reaches of the Oly/Tumwater border to Carol's friends' house, "The Curry Palace" - named for the awesome color choices of two eccentric gays. At "The Curry Palace" I met Carol's pottery guru, Sequoia Miller and his other half, Ariel. They were wonderful, the new house & studios are amazing and I got to hold their friend's baby.

After all this excitement, I released Carol to visit with Kim so James and I could hit the liquor store. She said she's be back my 9:30pm. The result? An AWOL Carol, a drunk James and an aggitated Sam. I don't know man; I just work here. Eventually James, Samantha & I headed down to Jake's. Carol said she'd meet us there.

Long story short: Carol showed. We danced. James was really mean to Menini - who sucks. Sam was pissed at James for lecturing her on the pitfalls of retail middle management. Noah was there with, like, three other guys - yet still made out with James. And as we said our goodbyes out on the rainy sidewalk? That adorable fucking gymnast even got a little fresh with me.

It's important to note at this juncture that James had the hiccups for roughly the last hour or so of the night. And boy was he pissed. This means that he hiccup-made-out with Noah, which is pretty funny. It also means that at any moment that he wasn't distracted by tongue action, he was flipping the fuck out with hiccup rage. Make no mistake, James hates having the hiccups. A lot. So, we get home after dropping Sam off. We walk in the house & he says to me:

"I'm gonna go pee. When I get back, I want you to hit me... as hard as you can."

Outstanding.

I, as you can imagine, lose my shit laughing. How do you respond to something like that? Well, I am his bestfriend - so I did what any decent bestfriend would do. When he came out of the bathroom, we talked:

And I decked him. Three times. In between slaps he told me I slapped like a cheerleader, then promptly reminded me I wasn't allowed to punch him. And, you know what? It totally worked. Hiccups gone. James a little more sober. And I got to hit him... everyone wins.

Friday, June 02, 2006

One Miss Carol Maxwell is flying in today, and because she is her, I have no idea when. She may be here already - cruising the mean streets of Olympia in her rental car, cat calling bitches, looking for a decent cup of coffee. Either way, she's bound to roll up on 717 Sawyer Street sooner or later. And when she does? Oh the fun we shall have, providing she's not being completely out of her fucking skull, which is a definite possibility. I can hardly wait.

Tomorrow night the house has planned a martini night with my lady friend, Samantha. That should be good; Sam's a fucking hoot. Plus, martini's are delicious & we're going to learn how to make them. So, we win.

Meanwhile - my urge to kill has just peaked. Why? Because James just came in off the porch, after smoking his cigarette & reading The Stranger, and shared with me something he had just been reading:

According to the CDC - all us womens folk should treat our bodies as if we are "pre-pregnant". PRE fucking PREGNANT. Everything we do should be guided by the notion of children. Obviously. Even if we have no intention of conceiving, we should always be preparing our bodies for pregnancy - since most are unplanned. Hmph. And the men? What will the men be doing whilst us delicate creatures are monitoring our intake of folic acids, watching our weight and taking our vitamins? Nothing. Absolutley nothing. Of fucking course. While this is lovely sentiment for those women who CHOOSE to breed, who are PLANNING on breeding and would LIKE to (or can AFFORD to) have a leg up on the whole healthy pregnancy thing - for the rest of us... this is another insulting pot shot at our vaginas.

Hey CDC: Go Fuck Yourself.

I don't need to hear anyone's, let alone another government agency's opinion on MY BODY. Here's an idea: what I do with my vagina, my uterus, my eggs, my cervix - none of your fucking business. My body. Mine. I was born with it. I take care of it. I pay the bills that keep it clean, fed, happy & without-child. I keep it warm. I decide when, how and by whom it will be seen, touched or otherwise maintained. I provide health care for it. I find it friends. And I can tell when someone is trying to fuck it - I'm looking at you CDC.

Me: "Wrong? I'm not wrong. They're two different words. I admit they have the same Middle English root babel (points to open dictionary) - I just wanted you to back up your outrageous claim with fact."

James: "What outrageous claim? It's Babble, like the tower."

Me: "I thought you were fucking with me. Besides: two different words - babble and babel. The tower is Babel. Both pronounciations are correct."

*The following is a post from my old blog. I just re-read it & I like it - so now I'm subjecting the internets to it. Again. What? Sometimes once just isn't enough. xoxo,jen

originally posted as: "WE NAMED THE DOG INDIANA"Okay, as some of you are aware - the day I had the sick on me, Arlen handed out something blog-topic-related to the un-sick. And because I'm me, I didn't talk to him about that when I saw him last week.

What can I say? I like to needlessly challenge myself.

However, the Internets (along with astute observation/snooping on my part) have come through yet again and I've tracked down at least one relevent item.

And where could this nugget have been? On the Sawyer Street main computer's home page - bitches. That's right. You can virual-blink and virtual-snub all you want... this house's affinity for Heather B. Armstrong won't be denied. What? She's funny.

Anyhow - the article in question was apparently selected to be in a printed anthology of prominent bloggers. Yay Dooce.

This selection, Alabama Hamilton, is a fairly good example of Dooce.com and what Heather does there. It captures her conversational tone and sense of humor. It gives us an idea as to her wit and what the rest of her blog might be like. It's her talking about her family and the quirks and weirdnesses therein. I can get behind that. The people we live with for long stretches of our lives provide endless material. She's figured out a way to use that material. And she's been doing it in such an appealing way that she's currently supporting her husband and their daughter with her website, and getting tons of great press. Again: Yay Dooce.

This selection makes me think of all the interesting names I've come across - my own being the THE MOST COMMON NAME of my generation. So common in fact, that I went to high school wih a girl that had the exact same name: first, middle and last. Awesome. But this got me thinking about Olympia and the downward spiral Carol (childhood friend & Sawyer roomie of the past) and I detected years ago. Now, it doesn't apply to everyone so don't get your panties all in wad. We call it The Olympia Progression:

1. Move to Olympia. Embrace immediate dissapointment that it is no where near as cool as the songs made it out to be (damn you Rancid). Sink deeper when you realize Courtney Love was right about something: when I went to school/ in Olympia/ everyone's the same/ we look the same/we dress the same/ we even talk the same...

2. Get ugly. This can be attributed to the effects of SAD and the fact that this area is a black hole of skirts over pants, a huge Goodwill and the desire to be different, just like everyone else.

3. Become an alcoholic. You've got to cope with the disappointment and ugliness somehow.

4. Have a bunch of bad sex. On account of the drinking and lowered self-esteem.

5. Change your name. Cause you don't even recognize yourself anymore. Between the depression, the ugly, the organic micro-brews that fuck with your intestines and subsequent bad sex - you're lost. Convince yourself that this state is some sort of revelation in self-awareness. Steal something from an Eastern religion you know little-to-nothing about and call it a day.

6. Choose you own ending: A) Experience a breakdown of some kind wherein you momentarily see through the bullshit and run as fast as you can from this place, with your actual name which you never changed legally in the first place. B) Get stuck. Deny the existence of the outside world, further embracing the flawed Utopia that is The Olympia Bubble. Suck more and more as the years piss away while you wait in vain for the next Nirvana.

Depressing right?

All things considered, I'm deeply satisfied with my name. It's common, but it's mine and I like it. Besides, I know I totally lucked out - my mom was a bit hippy-ish in her day. If the mood had struck her right, I might have ended up Buttercup Rainbow, Saffron Peace or Daffodil Moonbeam. I'll stick with Jennifer Ann. Thank you very much.

So, yeah. I like this entry and I'm excited for Heather that it got picked up for that anthology. I guess I wish they had selected something longer, or at least more, well her.

Allow me to illustrate my point by going here, here or here because you need to know about the tweeking of an invisible nipple. You know you do. Don't lie. You're fooling no one.

You know, I was in a shitty mood when I started writing this. Tried to go out earlier, got a coffee downtown, dropped my Netflix (Mallrats & Happenstance - which was French and good) in the mail and promptly came home. The whole time I was out there a little voice in my head (crazy? me?) was yelling RETREAT!RETREAT!. This happens every now and again. I find it best to ablige the yelling, lest something fucked up happen to me. Especially since I know my ex is getting married today, probably in town, and that's just weird. Figure I'd rather not cross paths with them, so it's best to not tempt fate. My point is - I was feeling like shit when I started, but reading about pussy-ass cocksmacks and horrible Prada-buying bosses really cheered me up. Dooce wins it again.

Wow. I'm looking around here, getting reacquainted with this thing today - instead of doing work. And what do I discover? Well... it's gotten all fancy in my absence and yes, yes I can totally waste hours of my life changing shit around to my heart's content. Holy shit, am I psyched.

Looks like I'll be sticking around after all. It'll be interesting to see just how much I've forgotten since fall & how long it takes me to get this into a state I like. So that's the news for now. Exciting, I know.